


To Feel Something

by a_little_chai



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode: s02e15 Revelations, Episode: s02e18 Jones, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Spencer Reid, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, References To:, Season/Series 02, Seizures, Spencer Reid-centric, Spencer's a bit of a mess, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_little_chai/pseuds/a_little_chai
Summary: It's a month after Georgia. Spencer knows he shouldn't have shot up in the train station bathroom that morning, but it had been too hard to resist. He couldn't stop. He just couldn't.AKA: Spencer overdoses in front of the team.
Relationships: Derek Morgan & Spencer Reid, Spencer Reid & The BAU Team
Comments: 15
Kudos: 397
Collections: General Manager at the Wendy’s in Fairbanks





	To Feel Something

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for clicking on this story. I don't know how I feel about this, but I also need positive reinforcement so... here we are. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> All warnings in end notes.

Lost. 

He felt lost. 

Like the world was spinning and the ground was falling out beneath him and there was absolutely nothing, no one, that could catch him. He was alone. Completely, utterly, alone. The team hated him. He had pushed them away, and he had no one else. Nothing else. 

There was an itch, a constant itch, in the back of his mind. It whispered in a malignant hiss, about his weakness, his cowardice. He hit rock bottom the moment he shoved a needle into his own arm, the moment he depressed that plunger and allowed the drug to flow into his veins. He had betrayed everything he had worked so hard for in that millisecond. For what? A release, from pain and hurt and humiliation? The ability to lose himself in some other world made of dreams? 

He was still using Tobias' bottles, the ones cut with a psychedelic. Every time he shot up, he saw things. He saw the walls turn into fantastic colors that couldn't be seen with the human eye, swirling and mixing for hours and hours. He saw shadows with sharp teeth lunge at him from the corners of a bathroom stall. He saw beauty and awe and suffering and death. 

And he could feel, too. Feel claws digging into his skin as sharply as a warm embrace.

That feeling, those visions, they let him escape. Escape this world, where he is less than a person. A thing without friends or family or a home. Life is a game of tug-of-war, full of giving and taking, and when you're alone, all you're left with is a rope to hang yourself. He'd learned that the hard way. His only purpose, the only thing left, was his job. But he was seeing more and more now that he was shit at that too. 

Otherwise he wouldn't have sat in a train station bathroom that morning, shooting up far too large of an amount of drugs. Drugs he'd stolen from a dead man's body. He wouldn't be sitting at the round table in the conference room, unable to focus on the things that would allow them to save some person's life, to stop a killer. He needed his head _here_ , at work.

But his hands wouldn't stop shaking and those horrible thoughts kept running circles in his head. Statistics and memories and half forgotten lines jumbled until that was all he could hear above the roaring in his ears. The world was shifting and turning and thank God he was sitting or he certainly would've fallen over. He wasn't sure he'd be able to get back up again. 

The fact no one noticed what was going on in his head was a testament to how far he had pushed the team away. Missing the jet in New Orleans, the constant annoyance and irritation prickling under his skin that he hasn't been able to control, its no wonder they gave up on him. 

It's better that way. 

He didn't let himself look at the crime scene photos laying out in front of him (the last time he had, the woman had blinked, smiling up at him with lips that had been removed). Instead, he focused on a knot in the fake wood pattern of the table. Why would they print a defect they could've easily avoided? Authenticity? Reassurance that they were still human despite the plasticity of all of our surroundings? He didn't feel human. He didn't feel real. 

People got up. His coworkers. His... friends? Family? JJ must be done with presenting the initial case files. He needed to get up. But the world shifted again and it was hard to breathe and he couldn't stop thinking of that woman and the knots of the wood and the syringe hidden in his bag and - 

Something vaguely passed through his hearing. Something like, _are you alright, pretty boy?_ Morgan, it was Morgan. Morgan would save him from this, this... _drowning_ , Morgan, and the rest of the team, they would find him, just like they had before, a month ago, in that dank cabin that had smelled so - give me - bury my dead out of - 

A hand landed on his shoulder and he jumped. It added another sound to the cacophony screaming in his ears. And suddenly it was like everyone was talking and the world just kept spinning around and around and he didn't know what was happening. He tried to stand but his legs just... didn't. Sharp pins and needles (why needles, it's always needles) ran up and down them and he fell. 

There was no pain, at least. 

He couldn't breathe, he needed air, but there were just more hands on him, moving him and he couldn't, couldn't take anymore, please Tobias, help me! And then the chair was pushed back and his head hit the floor and he was gasping, gasping, and the world was -

{~*~}

He should've seen it. They all should've seen how much Reid had fallen apart in the past month. Morgan knew, he knew deep in his heart, that something was wrong, but he hadn't done anything. Because Gideon had assured them, after New Orleans, that the kid was fine. 

Well, it was damn well obvious now that Reid was in no way fine. 

All the past week, he'd been spacey. He'd avoided the crime scene photos, ignored Garcia's jokes and innuendos. And when he wasn't completely spaced out, he was yelling at them for some stupid reason. The lights were too bright, their writing was too loud, they were being unprofessional for joking in the break room. Hell, the kid used to build literal _rockets_ in the bullpen, and he was lecturing _them_ about being unprofessional? He was hurting, they all knew that, but something was wrong. Very wrong. 

And then this morning, he had walked in ten minutes late, sitting down in his usual chair and not acknowledging any of them. He hadn't said a single word during the briefing. Just stared at the table looking like he was figuring out some complex math equation in his head. But his hands don't normally shake when they're holding a file, and it's not like him to ignore a presentation. Reid may be a lot of things, but he truly cared about the people they saved. He wouldn't risk that.

"Wheels up in twenty," came Hotch's voice once JJ was finished presenting their newest case - a grisly double homicide home invasion. They all started to gather papers and bags, readying to get on the plane and fly to Atlanta. 

But Reid still sat there, staring intently at nothing. 

"You alright, pretty boy?" He asked, wanting to touch the kid on the shoulder but unsure if he should. He glanced up at the rest of the team, who were all finally noticing that something was wrong. About damn time. "Reid?" 

He finally let his fingers brush the grey cardigan the other was wearing, gently pushing. Sometimes, as much as the kid may hate it, the best way to get him anchored back in reality was to touch him. He'd expected a jump, yeah, and then maybe a small smile, a bit of a blush when he realized he'd spaced out in front of everyone. Hell, with the way things had been recently, a slap to the face wouldn't have been as surprising as what he did do. 

Reid yelped loudly, trying desperately to stand and only failing miserably when his knees buckled. It looked like a hard fall, and Emily and Hotch rushed over to make sure the young genius was alright. 

Spencer was just staring up at the ceiling. His eyes were glassy in a horribly familiar way. His breaths were coming in loud, wet gasps that sounded absolutely horrible. And he knew, then, that everything that could possibly go wrong was. 

"Did he hit his head?" 

"I don't think so, but-" 

All at once, Reid's muscles contracted and he started shaking. It took them a moment to respond, shocked into inaction by their teammate seizing on the floor of the conference room. It was too similar to that night a month ago, where they had watched a grainy screen in a murderer's house. Eerily similar. 

It was Gideon who got his wits back first, loosening Reid's tie and putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. Not restraining, more... comforting. Reassuring. 

"Time him." He told Emily sternly before looking over at Garcia. "Call an ambulance, tell them what's happening."

The seconds stretched into minutes which seemingly stretched into hours while their teammate, their youngest, continued to seize in front of them. The only sounds were the ticking of a clock, Garcia's voice as she desperately held back tears while talking to the operator, and Reid's ragged breathing. 

Finally, Spencer relaxed. His eyes slipped closed. Gideon rolled him onto his side slowly, moving him into the recovery position. "One minute thirty four seconds." Prentiss said quietly. Hotch started to pace as they waited, listening to Reid's harsh breaths. His lips were starting to turn a horrible shade of blue. Gideon kept his hand on the kid's shoulder, massaging the muscles still twitching beneath it. 

He wanted to punch something. He wanted to hit someone for allowing... _whatever_ this is to happen to Spencer. Hadn't the kid been through enough? He was still recovering from the Hankel case, he didn't need this too. 

He wanted to punch himself for not speaking up when he should've, when he first noticed that more was wrong with Reid than standard PTSD. After New Orleans.

Finally, finally, the medics came through the doorway carrying heavy bags and a backboard. They took one look at them all before settling on the floor opposite to where Gideon was. "Patient's in respiratory distress. We need a BVM, Jones. What are his symptoms?"

"He.. he had a seizure." The words were whispered, raw. They wouldn't leave his throat, not fully. He just couldn't stop seeing Spencer on the floor, gasping and shuddering and shaking, eyes rolled back so they were showing white. Couldn't stop seeing Spencer with a breathing bag being fitted over his mouth as an EMT took his pulse.

There was silence for a quick moment, before Gideon started talking. "It's an opioid overdose. Dilaudid, possibly cut with psychedelics. He was dissociative, shaky, before he fell to the floor and started to seize. It lasted about a minute and a half. He's been having trouble breathing."

"Do you know how much he took." 

"No, but he's been using for over a month."

They all stared at Gideon, who kept his eyes firmly trained on Reid. Dilaudid, cut with a psychedelic. That... that was Tobias' drug of choice - 

Suddenly, everything made sense. Reid's behavior, the way Gideon covered for him. Everything. 

Tobias must've shot him up, back in that damned cabin. Tobias drugged him with hardcore, addictive shit. That was why the kid refused a medical exam beyond an x-ray for his foot. That was why he'd seemed so... _off_ , on those damned recordings, when they were back home. And that was why... that was why he stayed back with Tobias' body. 

Goddamn.

And he knew Reid, he knew how he pushed his emotions and trauma as far away as he could. Faced with addiction, he wouldn't have confided in them. Worse, he _couldn't_ have. If he had continued using, he would've been fired, no matter how the addiction first started. This job was his life; Reid wouldn't give that up unless he thought he was putting the team in danger. 

He looked at the medics working over his friend. Unconscious, he looked... small. Thin. His skin was too pale, almost blue. There were still fine tremors running through him, and now that his shirt sleeve was rolled up, he could see the tiny red marks littering the crook of his elbow. 

Spencer had OD'd. 

Spencer had OD'd because he hadn't let anyone in. Because he let himself fade away, become something decidedly _not_ the Spencer Reid they all knew and loved and cared for, and for what? To protect their jobs? They would've covered for him in a heartbeat, and fuck Strauss if she found out. 

Shit, the kid knew the risks. He knew what taking drugs could do to his mind, especially with his genetics. How could he risk it? How could he risk having to face his greatest fear? How could he risk losing everything he had built for himself?

He watched numbly as the EMTs lifted him onto the backboard and started to carry him out of the conference room. He wanted to do nothing more than to run after them and hold Reid's hand the whole time, if only to ground him, to show him someone's there and that they were not giving up on him. But he knew he couldn't. They were still technically working.

It was Gideon who followed the gurney close behind, obviously intending to ride to the hospital with them. Gideon, who was like the kid's father. The one who had found him at CalTech, the one who had helped Reid get the waivers he needed to pass his Academy training. The one who introduces him to every LEO as Doctor, and won't give them an inch of leeway when it comes to respecting the kid.

What kind of father would let it get this far? What kind of father would spend weeks, knowing that their son could die any minute of any day, because of something they could've stopped?

They were all left, after, standing in various parts of the conference room, completely shell shocked by the revelation that had been dumped on them. Their youngest, the one they protected and sheltered as much as they could with a job like this, was a drug addict. Dr. Spencer Reid, PhD times three, Supervisory Special Agent at the FBI, was a drug addict who had overdosed right in front of them. 

It was Hotch that spoke first. 

"Emily, JJ, and I will go to Atlanta to work on the case, and I expect Garcia to work here. Morgan, you will help Gideon with Reid. Once everything's settled here, I expect you on a flight out to meet us." 

"Hotch, you can't expect us to just leave - " Emily started to protest, but Hotch cut her off. 

"I know that a lot just happened, and that we're all worried about Reid, but there are still people being murdered in Georgia. We can't..." There was a waver in Hotch's voice, the smallest tremble betraying the emotion the man kept completely suppressed. "We have to focus on the job. Grab your go bags and get to the jet."

He turned around sharply, leaving the room. It took a second, a second where he could visibly see the two women right themselves, but eventually Emily and JJ followed. 

"I expect to get constant updates about our beautiful piece of white chocolate. A call every hour, complete with all the medical what's-it that I'll have to look up." Tears were still shining in Garcia's eyes, her voice slightly strained. Her hand, still gripping tightly to her phone, was shaking. 

"Yeah." His voice was soft, far away, images of the past hour starting to replay in his mind again. Noticing the worried look Garcia gave him, he forced himself to focus on her. Cleared his throat and made his voice work because she was an inch from falling apart and he couldn't have that. "Yeah, yeah, I'll call you when I get to the... hospital. Do you know -?" 

"Stafford, the EMTs said they were taking him to Stafford." She sniffed quietly, before walking around the table and hugging him tightly. "Is he - can he get through this?" 

"Our boy genius is stronger than we think." He forced his tone to stay light, to keep his own tears from being too apparent. "He will get through this, okay? We know, and we will support him no matter what."

"I can't stop seeing it. This... This is the second time I've seen him like that... " She pulled away, taking a deep breath and rubbing her eyes. "Call me, as soon as you know anything."

"Of course, baby girl." He smiled, but it was all forced. Everything felt forced. He watched as Garcia took a big breath, before walking out of the conference room. 

And he was alone. 

He punched the table. Hard. Swiped the paper files onto the ground. His eyes caught Spencer's messenger bag, forgotten on the back of his chair. He picked it up, surprised at how light it was. 

Reid never went anywhere without it. 

Stafford was only twenty minutes away if he went above the speed limit. 

Taking a final deep breath, Derek Morgan walked out of the conference room.

{~*~}

Everything... everything was too bright. Too sudden and loud and there were hands on his shoulders and he pushed, pushed as hard as he could, against them. But they wouldn't budge, just wouldn't budge, and something was in his throat and oh God, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't -

{~*~}

\- breathe. The world was spinning and that thing in his throat made him want to gag and - 

Words, there were words. They breached the panic, cut through the fog of confusion and the pain. _It's alright, pretty boy. Just open your eyes, you can do it, just open your eyes._

The voice was nice and calm and at a startling juxtaposition to the clamoring symphony currently playing in his brain. He wanted to keep listening. 

His eyes opened. 

It was bright. Too bright. Squinting, the world came into focus a bit more, and he could see a light, and two people above him. He fought down the panic rising in him again. The last time he'd woken up like this, Charles had been the one standing over him. Charles with his revolver.

Like he read his thoughts, one of the men spoke. "You're in the hospital, Dr. Reid, and there is currently a breathing tube helping your respiration. I need you to stay calm and let it breathe for you." It was wrong. It felt so wrong. He wanted to pull it out, but the other man caught his hands when he started to lift them. "I'm going to take it out now, so I need you to cough as hard as you can when I count to three. Okay?"

He nodded as best he could, still trying to fight the grip on his hands. Distantly, he heard the doctor count down, and then one of the worst things he had ever felt in his life. Pulling and scraping and just wrong and awful. He coughed, gagged, as a hand rubbed his back. 

"It's okay, pretty boy, just breathe." Finally looking up, he recognized that it was Morgan next to him. 

"Wh..." His throat was too sore to get the words out, so he just started coughing again. Morgan handed him a glass of water and he drank it as quickly as he could. It did little to ease the aching sensation in his esophagus. "What happened?" 

He glanced over at the doctor, who looked at his chart. "You overdosed, Dr. Reid. We gave you Naloxone, and you're on a low dose of Dilaudid to prevent withdrawal, but your breathing didn't improve enough, so we had to intubate. In a few days, you should be fine, physically. However, then we have to tackle your dependence, starting with weaning you off of the Dilaudid in a safe, controlled manner."

He ignored the sudden blast of irrational, disturbingly strong fear that washed over him. They can't... he can't just stop. He tried that once, after New Orleans. He took a few days personal leave, threw all his drugs down the drain, and settled in for a week of painful withdrawal. 

He lasted two days, that time. 

"Thank you, doctor." He said quietly, studying the many lines on his hands. Faintly, he heard the door open and close.

"You had a seizure in the conference room." Morgan said quietly. "Scared the living hell out of all of us."

Slowly, the full meaning of what had happened came to him. He had overdosed. Had actually overdosed. In front of the whole team. 

He shuffled away from Morgan's embrace, putting his head deep into his own hands. Shit. _Shit._ It was all over. Everything he'd been trying to keep secret, everything he'd been doing in the last month - 

He was going to lose his job. He was going to go to jail. Everyone will leave him, physically this time, not just emotionally. They all know what he did. They all know how weak he is, how wretched. 

"Reid, it's okay -" 

"Okay?" He looked up, ignoring the tears that had already started to stream down his face. " _Okay?!_ What about this is okay? What about _any_ of this is okay?" 

"Reid -" 

"You all saw - you all saw me -" He tried to take a deep breath, but it was like the weight of everything was on his chest. It refused to rise. "You all saw me - Everyone knows and - I'll have to leave the BAU - shit _shitshitshit_ -" 

"Spencer!" It was loud, startling. "Spencer, I need you to look at me, okay? Just stop for a second and _look at me_."

It took everything in him, but he managed. "It's all fallen apart."

"Listen to me, pretty boy. No one's going to fire you, and no one on the team thinks any less of you because of this. We will get you through this." He could see Morgan hesitate, but still wrap his arms around his shoulders. He sank into the hug. "I'm so sorry that I didn't help you before, kid. I am _so_ sorry. But we are here for you, and we are not leaving, no matter what anyone says."

He sniffled, feeling more tears run down his face as he breathed a bit deeper. "What if I'm not strong enough?" 

"You are. I know you are." He felt as Derek relaxed a bit, his muscles loosening. "You're still here, you're still fighting, even after everything. This is just another obstacle to get past. And we will get past it."

There, safe in the embrace of his teammate, the person he'd thought for months hated him, he felt something. It wasn't quite happiness. It wasn't quite... 

But it was something. 

And he held onto that. He held onto that for dear life.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:
> 
> Drug use  
> Very brief reference to suicide  
> Self-hatred
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed, please leave some comments or kudos!
> 
> **You are loved, and never alone. We are here for you, and you are enough.**  
> 


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